Y2K25

 Most summer mornings were foggy.  People claimed that morning fog and evening breezes were the definition of a pleasant climate, but my skinny, pale body craved the radiant warmth of sunlight.  I spent mornings huddled under soft blankets and cats, watching Love Boat reruns on a staticky television set that had no case, dusty tubes glowing beneath an antenna made from a coat hanger and aluminum foil.  The fog usually lifted around 11, but sometimes lingered as late as 2 and those days never seemed to get warm enough before the Bay Breeze sucked all the day’s heat away.  I always pronounce ‘Bay Breeze’ with extra spit.

When at last the fog would separate and small patches of blue began to spread across the valley, making it feel less like a giant room and more like the outdoors again, I would migrate to the back steps and survey whatever mayhem had unfolded overnight.  When you live in a household with several tweakers, mornings can be full of surprises.  A large tree might go missing, or a semi-dismantled boat might appear in the driveway.  The lawn might be spray painted bright orange, or there might be a moat surrounding the garage.  Is that the merry-go-round from Campbell Park?  Best to just think of it as surprises.

I wore big dorky glasses that magnified the intensity of the sun, so I’d scootch down one step every ten minutes or so, keeping my head in the shade while maximizing tanning hopes on my gangly ankles.  Pretty is a word reserved for shapely muscles that lie beneath smooth, firm, tinted skin.  I wondered if I got enough freckles, would they converge into the most amazing tan ever?  When the sun vanished above the house, I would pass through the kitchen, perhaps pausing for a piece of garlic toast and a glass of chocolate milk (a lethal combination before my awareness of lactose intolerance), check to see if my baby sister’s diaper needed changing or if she had covered herself in permanent marker and was wandering down the street.  Again.  Then take up residence on the front porch, reversing the ritual, scootching up one step at a time.

I spent most of my idle time complaining of boredom, but also entertaining myself with my own mind (a skill for which I remain grateful, in spite of a wistful yearning for discipline and structure).  I allowed my mind to wander on its own, following along with interest.  Together, my mind and I would trace the path of the past, marvel at the present, and imagine possible trajectories of the future.  My mind would count the years until the arbitrary calendar turned 2000, 23 years from now.  I’ll be 33.  Prime.  New Year’s Eve 2000.  By then, I surely will be positioned to really LIVE!  I scootch up another step.

I spent the first minutes of the new millennium alone in a shabby hostel, puking my guts out after having spent the day trying to keep my face away from the impossibly sweaty armpit of a Costa Rican bus passenger holding the rail above my seat, only to have the awful smell supplanted by diesel fumes each time the driver careened around a mountainous switch-back.  The sound of fireworks from the street echoed through the porcelain chamber, momentarily drowning out my dry heaves.  Prime.  I wished I were home, and in that wishful moment, adventure lost some of its appeal.

NYE2000 is twenty-five years behind me now – or is it 26 years?  My mind can’t be bothered to actually count it out.  Nearly half of a life-time ago.  The only adventure I have planned for today is to clear out the rain gutters ahead of the approaching atmospheric river.  I will almost certainly be in bed before the new year arrives on this continent.  

It’s cold and foggy this morning, and the sun won’t be coming out to shine on my back steps.  At least I have soft blankets.  And cats.